In the past not far gone, it was just before dawn

On a night that was colder than death,

The moon’s eerie beam showed it looking at me,

And I froze at the sight of pale flesh.

Its eyes were as wide as the ocean’s high tide

And covered in layers of mist;

Its lips ever-quivered and shoulders did shiver

As it’s neck contorted and twist.

Its hands were so mangled from every odd angle

It forced its phalanges to hit,

That the poking and prodding and ten-digit knotting

Had gnarled what once was a fist.

Its back was as curled as the edge of the world

Notre Dame could have been its home,

And its eyes were so bleary it could not see clearly

The world of the sun it had once known.

I heard once, its sight was challenged by light

That wasn’t artificially made,

And it shrieked and it howled and grotesquely cowered

In every fragment of shade.

They’ve never been seen, but that night by me,

The image burned into my mind;

If you ever do see one, before you turn to run,

There is something you ought to find.

These deformed little creatures have a distinguishing feature,

On sight you’ll immediately know;

Look, if you can, at those most-mangled hands,

It’ll be clutching a very small phone.